


Sins of the Father

by Beth Harker (Beth_Harker)



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 08:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17220833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beth_Harker/pseuds/Beth%20Harker
Summary: Itey and Snitch share some secrets as they navigate the rocky beginnings of their friendship. Trigger warnings for mentions of death, religion, and violence





	Sins of the Father

Fridays were mail day at the Duane Street lodging house, but nobody got mail much, so nobody cared. Week after week the only newsies to loiter around Kloppman’s desk in search of the postman on Friday morning were Itey, Snitch, and Bumlets. It had been a long while since anything had come of it, but this morning brought deliveries for each of the boys, in the form of a picture postcard of the ocean for one, a beat up envelope with a foreign address for another, and a thick letter from the state penitentiary neatly addressed to the third.

Bumlets grinned from ear to ear, but wasted no time in pocketing his mail and racing out the door, the cane he’d taken to carrying serving as a catapult to vault him over the three steps between the lodging house porch and the street. Itey clutched his letter to his chest, with a little fist pump, and the words, “Snitch, my mother,” followed up by something heartfelt in Italian

Snitch glanced from his own letter to Itey’s, his mouth momentarily slack-jawed, eyes momentarily blank, like he didn’t know his own best friend. Then he straighten, squared his shoulders, and tipped his hat at Kloppman. “Thank you kindly for the mail,” he said, then dragged Itey out by the elbow to catch up with the others, long colt-legs stumbling over the steps in a way that looked doubly uncoordinated after Bumlets’ grand exit.

“I… didn’t sure… the address,” Itey gave as short, breathless laugh. “The boat. To go to Italy and… come back to America… It needs many time, but it’s good. It’s good! The letters can go home.”

“Just make sure to read it with a grain of salt,” said Snitch. He wasn’t unsympathetic to Itey’s confused look. He’d spent weeks writing down English words for him in a notebook before realizing that Itey had never learned his letters properly. “Or you can get Race to read it to you, but don’t forget the salt, you hear?”

“Salt,” Itey repeated slowly. He thought of the little glass salt shaker on the dinner table at the lodging house, the one that was so old that the stuff inside it had gone rock solid; he thought of ham and fried potatoes, both of which he knew to be salty foods. He didn’t see what any of this had to do with his letter. Maybe it was something about Snitch’s. “Who writes to you?” Itey asked.

“My pop. My dad. Father. Father writes to me.”

Father, mother, sister, brother, daughter, son – that had been one of the later of Snitch’s little English lessons, and it had only come about by Itey’s prompting. He’d sketched a woman holding a baby in their notebook.

“Snitch, here is me,” Itey pointed to the baby. “Who is she? The woman. Who is she?”

Snitch opened his mouth to speak, but Swify got to the answer before him. “The gal is Skittery, and hate to break it to you, Ite, but the babe ain’t you. It’s Tumbler.” Swifty waved up at Skittery, and shrugged. “Not meanin’ any offense, Skits, but you'se probably the most motherly among us.”

“None taken, but if I’m the mom ‘round here, you’re all going to bed without supper. You can hand your plates over to me, and I’ll live off of 'em for a week.”

Words raced past Itey, forming sentences that he always felt just on the verge of understanding. He looked to Snitch, then put pencil to paper, and set about making the woman and the baby’s hair curlier, to emphasize that that baby was indeed him, and the woman his…. his…

Mush swung down from his bunk to sit next to Itey and Snitch. “Looks like the Virgin Mary and Jesus,” he said.

“Yes!” Itey exclaimed. “…But no. Mary was…”

“Holy?”

Itey nodded emphatically. He pointed to the picture. “Yes. This my holy and this is me.”

There was a general burst of laughter, and Itey sighed. He shook out his paper, unsure what else he could do to get his point across. Maybe parents weren’t a thing these boys understood. None of the newsies seemed to have any, but Itey had seen plenty of families with children out and about in the city, so surely the other boys at least had some idea…some idea that the way they all lived was not normal.

“You say the baby’s you?” Mush asked.

“Yes. Is me.”

“Is the lady your ma?”

Itey looked over at Snitch, who nodded slowly, and pointed to the woman on the paper. “That’s a mother, Itey,” he said, but he sounded more resigned than happy. “Say after me. Mother.”

Gravely, Snitch began drawing out more curly haired people to fill out Itey’s little stick family. Soon, there was a mother, a father, a sister, and a brother.

“I have no sister,” Itey told Snitch.

“Yeah, well this ain’t about you. It ain’t about none of us. It’s about learning English, so’s you can be a productive member of society, not like all them Italians who live over on Chelsea and don’t talk a word to nobody except each other.”

The Italians over on Chelsea and their wicked ways were a favorite topic of Snitch’s, and one that always made Itey’s stomach sink.

“Hey Snitch,” Mush said. “How about you draw a grandma and a grandpa, huh? Maybe some aunts and uncles.”

“Don’t forget to draw his fourth paternal cousin, twice removed,” suggested Specs, who just got a glare for his troubles.

“What’s that?” Asked Itey.

“You don’t got one.”

“Do you got…?” Itey traced his hands over Snitch’s pictures.

“I… Well I had…” Snitch swallowed, then put his arms around Itey’s shoulder. “It’s like this, pal,” he said, real quietly. “There’s just some things you don’t go around asking people. Family matters is one of those things. That’s what we Americans call etiquette, and you gotta learn it if you’re gonna live here.”

Itey nodded. He understood that he couldn’t ask Snitch about his mother and father, and that he needed to learn how to be an American.

Snitch straightened up, and took his arm off Itey with an indulgent smile. “Let’s say the words again, buddy.”

Later that night, Itey flipped through his notebook full of words. Even if he couldn’t read it, he liked having time to go through the pages at his own pace, and see what he could remember. It was getting full. How many notebooks would he need to fill before he knew everything that he needed to know? The book started out with greetings and the names of the other newsies, then went on to different foods, some of which Itey still hadn’t tried. Turkey, for instance, seemed to be a very big chicken, and caviar (added by Specs) looked suspiciously like a cheerful fat man eating a dollar sign with a spoon. There were pages upon pages of animals, most of which (like elephants and dragons) could not be found in either Italy or New York. Miscellaneous items, ranging from sewer grates to shaving razors abounded. How strange, that Itey had needed to learn all of these words before learning the words for the people who had brought him into the world, and then tearfully set him free to roam it. America was a strange place.

Snitch stuffed his letter into his pocket, and walked a little faster.

“You have a father?” It was the second time Itey had ever asked this question, or a variation of it. Maybe it was alright to ask now, because Snitch was getting letters from the man.

“Yeah.”

“Congratulations!”

“You making fun of me, Itey?” Snitch’s face wore a tight frown that Itey didn’t like, not any more than he liked the slight quiver in Snitch’s voice.

“I have a mother,” Itey held his letter up to Snitch like it was a peace offering or a flag of surrender. Snitch batted his hand away.

“You know what both of us got,” said Snitch, a defeated slump to his shoulders. “A job to do, that’s what. We got a job to do, and all we’re doing is making ourselves late with all this jibber-jabber.”

~~~~~

That night, Itey traded Racetrack a pack of cigarettes and a bent up baseball card to get him to read his mother’s letter to him. He offered Race another two cigarettes if he would just promise not to tell the other boys that the letter had made him cry, but Racetrack patted his shoulder and waved him off. He would not, however, take any amount of bribes to help Itey write a response, at least not that night. He had a poker game to run, and just 'cause Itey was his countryman didn’t mean he could expect special treatment.

It was a nice letter, full of encouragement, and tales of the exploits of Itey’s four younger brothers, who were all doing well. His father was also doing well, though money was as tight as ever. It made Itey regret every morsel of food he’d eaten, and every paper he hadn’t sold. He’d do better.

Itey was distracted through his English lesson that night, and so was Snitch. They’d both had plenty of days when their heart wasn’t in the study, but rarely at the same time – usually when one faltered, the other took up the lead. They let it go on for half an hour, then Snitch decided to get some shut eye. Itey went outside to smoke with Dutchy and Bumlets.

“A friend in Boston, huh?” Dutchy was saying. “Hey, Itey. You hear Bumlets got mail from his pal in Boston?”

“Yes! I’m there. Is it good?”

“Great, till some idiots thought they had the right to steal it.”

“They shouldn’t do that,” Dutchy agreed. “Good thing not a one of us can read Spanish but you.”

“Wouldn’t want them to learn about the fine weather in Boston and the price of lobsters,” Bumlets took a drag of his smoke. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

Bumlets and Dutchy continued to talk, with Itey interjecting now and then, but mostly enjoying the night air, and being able to observe his little corner of the city without feeling like it was observing him in turn. Itey’s letter was still in his pocket, making home feel very far away and very close all at once. Italy was another world, yes, but it was one that he could communicate with.

The lights were out by the time that Itey went inside to go to sleep. Snitch’s thumb was in his mouth, but his eyes were open, shiny and black in the darkness. Itey climbed into the bed with Snitch, patted his ankle in way of greeting, and set about trying to find his own sleep. It didn’t come. He was trying to draft letters in his head - cheerful, reassuring letters with all his finest words.

Snitch sat up abruptly, and kicked Itey in the armpit.

“Ow!”

“Sorry, sorry.” There was a brief and uncomfortable shuffle, as both boys tried to rearrange themselves. The first few weeks they’d shared the bed they had slept beside each other like Itey once had with his brothers, but then Snitch had announced that it was “improper”, and decided that shoving his feet in Itey’s face night after night was the correct way of doing things.

Somehow Snitch managed to get himself into a sitting position without kicking Itey again, more out of luck than any kind of natural grace. Itey sat up as well.

“Sorry,” Snitch repeated. “How’s your letter?”

“Yes. How’s your letter?”

“Good, I guess. It’s a good letter. My pop – father – sends his love. He…”

A pillow came flopping down in their general direction, but since Skittery didn’t want to let go of it to launch it properly, it just flapped around between Snitch and Itey’s faces. Itey shrugged, grinned, and put his finger to his mouth.

“He is angry,” Itey said in a stage whisper. The pillow waved menacingly in front of them. “All night he…” Itey punctuated his speech with a snoring sound, “but he is angry when we are talking.”

This time the pillow did get launched, but not very enthusiastically. Itey picked it up off the ground. “Skittery is angry. We have a new blanket,” he announced.

“That ain’t a blanket,” Snitch had forgotten to whisper.

Skittery climbed down from his bed to retrieve his pillow, and glare at Itey and Snitch, but Itey couldn’t find him very menacing with his big bare feet, mussed hair, and rose-colored long johns. “I ain’t angry,” Skittery grumbled. “I just don’t want to spend the night listening to no sob stories. It’s bad for my constitution.”

“We’ll keep quiet,” Snitch promised, not one to enjoy getting in trouble.

“We’ll go outside,” Itey amended, and pulled his friend up with him. “The moon and the stars can listen to all the sob stories.” The pair left the lodging house. On the way out, they passed Bumlets and Dutchy, who seemed to have given up griping about the other boys and smoking, and were now practicing some kind of dance step. Itey ignored them. Snitch wouldn’t want to talk with them, and he certainly wouldn’t want to dance with them, even if it did look fun.

“I know what is a pillow and what is a blanket,” Itey admitted once they were away from the others.

“Don’t worry 'bout that Itey. You learn English real good. It was just a mistake.”

“I don’t worry. I want you to laugh, so I say blanket.”

“It ain’t funny.”

Itey rolled his eyes. The other boys had said plenty of times that Snitch was a “stick in the mud”, which meant a bitter person with no sense of humor, and Itey had been defending him as long as he’d known how. That didn’t mean that he enjoyed bearing the brunt of Snitch’s rules and reproaches, at least not all the time. “The others laugh when my words are wrong,” Itey challenged.

“Don’t pay attention to 'em. They just ain’t nice to the likes of us. You’re doing your best, and it ain’t right to laugh at you.”

Itey softened, understanding. “Friends can laugh, sometimes. They can be careful. They can know… laugh or no laugh.”

“The other guys ain’t our friends.”

They would be soon, if Itey had any say in it. The problem was, he needed more words before his say would be worth the breath it took to make it, especially to Snitch, with his worrying mixture of fear and conviction. “I don’t know what is a 'sob story’,” said Itey, thinking it might be a good time to change the subject, before he let himself become frustrated.

“Don’t you?”

“No. I know story.”

“Sob means cry,” Snitch put is hands to his eyes, demonstrating. “A sob story is a sad story.”

“You have a sob story?”

“No,” Snitch said, too quickly. “Do you have a sob story?”

“I can make…”

“I don’t mean one you make,” Snitch cut him off. “I don’t partake in made up stories anyway. Do you got a sob story about you?” The two of them had been walking for some time now, and they were far enough from the lodging house to be alone in the middle of this city of millions. Snitch grasped Itey’s arm to stop him. “What if we both got sob stories,” Snitch said urgently. “And we can say 'em out, but only to each other. You’re the best pal I got, and the only guy who listens to a word I say. If I can’t tell you things, who can I tell?”

“You can tell me things,” Itey answered.

“Alright,” said Snitch. “Alright. Always knew I could,” he tugged on Itey’s sleeve to get him to sit down. They were near a brick wall, in one of the narrow walkways between the rows of shops that dotted Duane Street. If they went out towards the center of the street they’d be able to see carriages and the funny little western street performance that went on most nights, but right here they were safe from all that.  
Snitch cleared his throat before speaking. “My letter was from my pa, and he’s in prison.”

“Prison?”

If they had been on their bed in the lodging house, Snitch would have sketched a prison into Itey’s notebook. He looked to his side as if to grab it, but there was nothing beside him but dusty pavement, nothing that could help. “Prison,” Snitch enunciated the word with great care. “If you does something bad, something real bad, and the police catch you, that’s where you gotta live. That’s prison.”

“The Refuge?” Itey knew that that was where the police took boys who they caught stealing, loitering, or being vagrants. Sometimes they swept around the city grabbing up kids who they didn’t think could be productive members of society. Crutchy worried about that.

“The Refuge is jail for kids,” Snitch whispered. “Prison is jail for grown ups. Don’t suppose you got those in Italy, what with all the paganism that goes on over there.”

Itey chose to ignore Snitch’s comments about Italian paganism (which was his name for Catholicism). They never got anywhere when they started talking about that. “We have prison,” Itey said instead. He’d never been a close acquaintance to anyone who’d ended up in one, but he knew they existed. “Why is your… pa … in the prison?”

“You gotta speak proper English. It ain’t 'pa’ it’s 'father’ and–” Snitch’s voice seemed to be getting higher, “–he made a mistake.”

Itey nodded. He knew the word mistake, because he’d made plenty of them in his speaking. Snitch was the most unforgiving person Itey knew when it came to his version of right and wrong, but he’d always been quick to tell Itey that mistakes were alright.

“It was like this,” Snitch went on. “My mom made some mistakes too, some real bad ones, so my little sister, she ain’t got the same father as me.”

“You have a mother! And a sister!”

“Not anymore I don’t.”

Itey went silent. He watched Snitch. Snitch always went very pale when he was upset. It made him look like the kind of boy who would be easy to push around, all sickly and spindly, until it didn’t matter anymore that Snitch was the second tallest out of everybody at the newsboys’ lodging house. Itey scooted in a little closer, put his hand on Snitch’s shoulder, watched as the other boy bit at his thumbnail, not quite sucking, though Itey got the sense, from the way Snitch looked up at him then quickly wiped his hand on his trousers, that he wanted to (Itey wanted to tell him that it was okay to do it, but there was something embarrassing about that, maybe for both of them.).

“He shot her,” said Snitch, and with one look into Itey’s not quite comprehending eyes, he formed a pistol with his hands, and mimed shooting into the distance. The action seemed to take a lot out of him, and he rubbed his temples for a moment. “But he’s sorry,” Snitch said at last. “Not that he done it, but that I gotta live at the lodging house and sell newspapers with thieves and immigrants.”

“I’m sorry that he done it,” said Itey, even though Snitch’s comment about immigrants made him wince. He didn’t understand where this view came from, when America was a country made up of immigrants.

“Me too. I tell him about it every time I write. He listens to me, you know. He likes the way I write. I can spell a lot of words. His letters ain’t like they come from a killer. It’s like… Never mind. What’s your sob story, pal?”

“No sob story. I don’t cry.”

“Neither do I!” Snitch was defensive, and it made Itey feel bad about lying. Hopefully Racetrack would keep his mouth shut.

“I have a…” Itey started. It was only fair to tell Snitch what he could. “a… em… My father has a brother. We come together to America, but he is very sick. My father has no brother anymore. My father is in Italy. My brothers are in Italy. My mother is in Italy. I want her, and him, and… I want them. Too much.”

“But you’re better off here,” Snitch insisted.

“Maybe. America has many…” Opportunity, but Itey couldn’t say it. It wasn’t something that could be drawn in a notebook, and it wasn’t something he’d seen many examples of, at least not the way he’d expected. “Somebody is lucky,” Itey said instead, thinking about the way that Racetrack talked about his poker games. “Maybe tomorrow somebody is me.”

“You’re lucky today! You could’ve been ruined over there with them people but…”

“No.”

“Look, my mother and father ain’t good people either. Lots of the boy’s folks ain’t, but we can…”

Itey slapped his hands down on the pavement so hard that it hurt, and Snitch jumped as though he expected to be hit. “I don’t say your mother and father ain’t good people.”

“You don’t gotta say it. I know it.” Snitch was leaning away from Itey, his gaze shifting, as Itey tried to hold it. It wasn’t that he was trying to scare Snitch. He just wanted Snitch to understand him, to know that he was serious.

“It’s not for me to say it,” Itey said, half in a whisper, but nonetheless intense. “I don’t say something bad to your father and mother. Never. My father and mother are kind. They don’t hurt somebody. You don’t say something bad to them. They can lie, steal, hurt somebody. You also don’t say something bad to them. It’s not for you to say it.”

Itey waited, afraid that Snitch would respond with something awful. If he did, then he’d need to get mad at him for real, and Itey didn’t want that. They’d had a night of sharing confidences. That sort of thing was supposed to make friends closer, not turn into a fight. There was just so much that Snitch didn’t understand, and the more Itey knew him, the more he doubted that it was all a matter of language.

“Alright,” said Snitch at last.

“Alright,” echoed Itey. He let out a laugh of relief. He smiled. He put his arm over Snitch’s shoulder. “Alright.”


End file.
